


Keep Me Without Chains

by Vail



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragon Age Big Bang, Family, Family Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Mage Abuse and Oppression, Mage Rights, Magic Revealed, Male-Female Friendship, Roslin Amell, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vail/pseuds/Vail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: In 9:14, Perrin Threnhold was declared unfit to succeed his father, and Aristide Amell became the Viscount of Kirkwall. </p><p>15 years later, his grandniece Roslin struggles between her life in Hightown and the price she is still paying to keep him on the throne.</p><p>Written for Wave One of the Dragon Age Big Bang 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Me Without Chains

**Author's Note:**

> Oh. My. God.
> 
> This has been an absolutely RIDICULOUS undertaking - the longest fic I've ever *completed* in my whole entire life. Thank you to kate-argent on tumblr, aka Vi the Magnificent, for being the greatest beta I could have asked for. She wouldn't take my shit when she knew I could do better, and I went back and _hopefully_ managed to fulfill her expectations. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Aaaaand, THANK YOU to the fantastic talented super-amazing chenria, who was my pinch-hitter artist for the DABB Challenge! She's done three gorgeous pieces of art that you can find over here on [tumblr](http://chenria.tumblr.com/post/36682385524/i-have-been-waiting-to-post-these-they-were-a). The quality of her work really motivated and inspired me in the final stretch to go back and push this as far as I could, and overall I'm exhausted but a lot happier with how this finally turned out. 
> 
> MINI INFO POST FOR ANYONE WHO DOESN'T STALK DA WIKIA:  
> Aristide Amell is Leandra's father, aka Hawke's grandfather. In canon, Revka Amell, his niece/Leandra's cousin, was discovered to have given birth to mage children (Warden Amell) and so Aristide lost his chance to become Viscount because the Amell name was disgraced. 
> 
> This fic is kind of about...what might have been if Aristide _had_ become Viscount. Leandra still elopes with Malcolm, but things in Kirkwall go pretty differently.

**KEEP ME WITHOUT CHAINS**

AU: In 9:14, Perrin Threnhold was declared unfit to succeed his father, and Aristide Amell became the Viscount of Kirkwall.

15 years later, his grandniece Roslin struggles between her life in Hightown and the price she is still paying to keep him on the throne.

\---

**PROLOGUE.**

The scent of apples, tart and sweet, crept into the room accompanied by the light footsteps of her elven maid.

“Lady Roslin? Are you awake?” Valera woke her this way every other morning, a vial of rich amber potion clasped in one hand. “I have your medicine,” she said softly, padding closer. “How are you feeling today?”

“I’ll feel better soon,” Roslin murmured, mostly to reassure herself. Already, something buzzed in the back of her mind, like the beginning of a migraine. She clenched her hands around the blankets, trying to disguise their trembling. “Could I have it now?” The humming became a streak of sensation down her spine, jolting her into a sudden shiver. Roslin often disliked mornings, but she’d hoped this one would be alright, since her sleep had been pleasantly deep and unbothered. Perhaps it was greedy to expect more.

She swallowed obediently when Valera brought one spoonful, then another, of the liquid to her lips. The taste of it was as vile as usual, but there were too many things to be done for her to sit in bed and complain. She was lucky enough to have Grand-Uncle, who loved her enough to pay for her treatment. If she had been born anyone else...things would be very different.

The humming calmed itself, flat-lining into a small twinge that she could (and usually did) ignore. The potion didn’t truly affect her that fast, she'd been taught about placebo effect –

No. The potion _worked_ , and that was all that mattered. There were more important things that had to be dealt with.

“Viscount Aristide is attending to some visitors from Ostwick,” Valera informed her, resealing the bottle. It was worth several times its weight in gold, a month’s worth of dosage that couldn’t be wasted. “The Comte de Launcet is hosting a dinner tonight that you’re to attend in his place.”

Roslin sighed, pulling herself out of bed and half-heartedly combing out her tangled hair. “Of course. Do you know who else has been invited?”

The elven woman whisked two gowns out of the wardrobe and held both up to the light, pursing her lips as she examined them. “I’m not sure, milady. Messere Dumar will likely be there though, and his Ferelden friend-“

“Serah Nathaniel,” Roslin added, nodding. “He’s the eldest son of the Arl of Amaranthine, across the ocean. You know, there’s been some rather worrying news from Ferelden lately. They’re talking of darkspawn!”

“As you said milady, Ferelden is across the ocean,” her maid shrugged, “And none of the old stories say those monsters can swim. They’re probably not even real. You know that sailor gossip can’t be trusted.”

“I suppose...” Roslin turned her attention back to the dresses, glancing between the two of them. “The blue for the day, and emerald for the Comte’s dinner?”

Valera hummed and agreed, hanging the latter back up. “Before that, he’s asked if you could go over some paperwork with Seneschal Bran. There’s a property dispute over one of the estates up past the Chantry.”

The window screeched as Roslin opened it, letting a gust of cold morning air into her room. The sky was bright blue, as it usually was in Solis. It was early enough that a few birds were still chirping away in the gardens below, but in the far distance she could see smoke rising from the chimneys of Lowtown as its inhabitants began their day.

“No point in lazing about then,” She said, stripping off her sleeping clothes and slipping into the blue dress she’d chosen; something simple and light for moving about. Valera worked through the buttons down the back with deft fingers and then smoothed out the wrinkles over her shoulders.

“I’ll get something from the kitchen for you, milady. If you’d like to see the papers early, the Viscount opened his office for you before he left.” She whisked herself out of the room, the precious bottle tucked away into the apron she wore about the Keep.

Paperwork was one of Roslin’s less-preferred responsibilities, and the young new seneschal took his job so _seriously_. Spending the morning with him would be a chore. She took a last glance out the window, studied the way the clouds framed the towers of the Gallows at the very edge of the horizon. From here, it looked very small and distant, a whole world away.

She knew who to thank for that, and if she had to argue over paperwork with Seneschal Bran for the rest of her life, well – she’d do much more to pay her debt.

\---

**CHAPTER ONE.**

“Roslin dear, how _do_ you keep that lovely figure of yours? I would look so terrible in that gown!”

She smiled politely, unsure of how to answer. The wasp-thin waist was hers, but anything above the ribs was only the result of considerable amounts of...help. “Don’t be silly, Babbette. You look very pretty tonight. Is your dress from Orlais?”

Babbette de Launcet beamed, proudly running her hands down the front of her coral pink overskirts. “Yes, it is! The latest fashion in Val Royeaux, Father ordered it just for this party. Do you suppose Serah Nathaniel will like it?”

Roslin carefully eyed the – well, it was _probably_ a dress...or a garden. It was difficult to tell when the blonde’s entire bodice was covered in multicolored silk flowers, her floral-lace sleeves swishing dramatically with every movement.

“I’m sure he won’t be able to take his eyes off you,” she offered honestly. “Are you truly interested in him? I can’t imagine he’ll stay in Kirkwall much longer.”

“I’d think he’d rather stay, wouldn’t you?” The blonde gave a little shudder. “I’ve heard such awful things about Fereldan – it’s cold and smells like wet dog _everywhere._ Nathaniel is far too civilized to enjoy living in that country.” She paused suddenly, looking at somewhere over Roslin’s shoulder.

The brunette turned, spotting Saemus and Nathaniel quietly talking off to the side. Saemus never enjoyed extravagant parties, and from the looks of it, neither did his guest. Nobody in Kirkwall could turn dinner into an _event_ as well as the Comte de Launcet.

“You could speak to him for me, couldn’t you?” Babbette pleaded eagerly, clasping Roslin’s hand. “Nobody would think a thing of you going over to talk to Saemus.”

“I – Yes. Of course. I’d be happy to.” Why turn down a chance to escape? She gently pulled her hand away and made for the two men, gracefully lifting her skirts as she walked to keep them from dragging across the floor.

“Lady Amell,” Nathaniel nodded at her approach, dipping into a shallow bow. “If you need to speak to Saemus, I can –“

Saemus groaned, even as he reached out to entwine his fingers with Roslin’s. “Nate, it’s fine. Stay. Hello, Roslin. You look nice.” The casual touch was almost automatic now – pleasant, but mostly so they could both pretend to be occupied. Saemus didn’t care to ‘claim’ Kirkwall’s heiress for his own, and Roslin didn’t mind where his interests lay as long as he helped keep Brett Harimann away from her.

Still, she smiled at the compliment and gave a little curtsy to Nathaniel, just to be polite. “I’m sorry to cut in, Serah. I just need a quick word with Saemus about something.” She leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially. “Babbette wants me to put in a word for her with Serah Nathaniel. Ideas?”

Saemus ducked his head, eyes the same bright turquoise as the embroidery on his shirt collar. Wearily, he murmured back, “You encouraged her, didn’t you?”

“...A little.”

“ _Roslin._ You know what Fereldens think about Orlesians, that was mean.” The words were spoken with a hint of relief, as if her friend was thankful of the fact that Nathaniel wouldn’t -

Roslin quirked a bemused eyebrow at him, and lowered her voice even more. “Saemus Dumar, I can’t believe I haven’t asked you this before. What do _you_ think of him?” Saemus’s ears went red.

“I- Nathaniel is a friend,” he said defensively. “He’s a good man, but his country just – I mean, it’s not his fault that –“

Her face broke into a slow grin. “Alright, calm down. We can talk about this later, I’ll just let Babbette know that Nathaniel’s unavailable.”

Saemus still looked unhappy, but his eyes darted towards Nathaniel. He nodded slowly. “Just don't say anything, he doesn't...know."

"I won't," she promised, and then pulled back to address Nathaniel. "I do have something for you as well. Babette de Launcet sends her compliments, Serah."

The archer twisted to glance over his shoulder. Babbette was gazing at him, and flushed at the attention. She managed a little wave, the drape of her sleeves catching on one of the flowers around her waistline. Nathaniel managed a stiff nod in response. “What is she _wearing_?” he hissed, horror infused in his voice.

“The latest thing from Val Royeaux - she’s a little silly, but she is a nice girl," said Roslin, feeling strangely defensive. There were only so many in Kirkwall nobility that were of an age, and they all knew each other well enough. She wasn’t especial friends with Babbette, but she didn’t have anything against her either. Her joke was beginning to feel like mocking, and it left a bad taste on her tongue.

Nathaniel looked slightly chagrinned. "I didn't mean anything by it," he assured her. "Orlesian fashion is just...overwhelming for my tastes."

"I'm sure," she replied quietly, tightening her fingers around Saemus's. It was probably hypocritical of her - she'd had the same thoughts about that gown herself, but Nathaniel wasn't one of them. He wasn't _allowed_ to say the things that friends were.

There was no time for an uncomfortable silence between the three, as a hand suddenly touched her arm.

“Roslin,” the newcomer greeted. “Might I dance a song with you? I’ve asked them to play your favorite.” His dark hair was just long enough to brush the line of his square jaw, and his shirt bore the Harimann crest in detailed embroidery.

“Oh – Brett,” she said faintly. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m not feeling well enough to dance tonight.” It was only a partial lie - she would have if Saemus had asked her, of course, but that was an entirely different story. Her best friend liked dancing with her - Brett liked being _seen_ with her. She hated the way he'd kept his hands on her after the few times she danced with him out of politeness- as if she were his, as if he had a _right_ to.

"I was just about to take her home," Saemus cut in, sliding an arm around her waist. "It's getting late, and there's no reason to keep her here when she's feeling ill."

Brett frowned, studying her with a quick flick of his eyes. Roslin forced a smile and told him, “I do appreciate that you remembered. I'm sure someone else would be happy to dance it with you. Do have a nice night.”

"If you're sure," he sighed. "I hope you feel better. Flora will be sad she missed you." He nodded stiffly at Saemus and walked away, a more graceful acceptance of the rejection than she'd expected.

But then again...Brett had been her friend, once, as his sister still was. It was mostly Lady Harriman, and the way she looked at Roslin sometimes. As if she _knew_ , as if she was thinking of all the ways to twist that knowledge to her advantage. Brett would listen to his mother, if she told him to pursue Roslin the way he had been. Perhaps she wasn't being fair to him.

"I'll...go speak to Lady Babbette," Nathaniel conceded quietly in the following silence. "I'll see you back at the estate, Saemus."

"You don't really have to walk me home," Roslin protested. "It's not even that far-" He shook his head stubbornly, and before she knew it they had said their farewells to the hosts and were straight out the door.

Right. Saemus had probably wanted the excuse to leave too.

Outside, the moon was bloated and full in the sky. The further they walked the sounds from the estate they had just left faded away. She kept an ear open for footsteps, just in case – mercenaries were more and more common these days. Grand-Uncle was always telling her to be careful.

“Thanks for the save, by the way.” She pulled her dark hair over one shoulder, combing her fingers through it, and stared up at the dark sky. “I'm starting to feel bad about it, but...”

“You shouldn't have to,” he insisted, his arm around her loosening until the hold was friendly rather than intimate. “It's your right to choose who you want to be with. Nobody else should decide that for you."

"I - Yes. I suppose."

He gave her an odd, curious look. "Actually, you do look pale. Paler than usual. Did you have your medicine today?"

She swallowed the quick rise of bile in her throat and nodded. “Yes. It’s under control, I promise.”

"When's the healer coming to see you again?"

Roslin paused midstep. "Actually, she's not."

"What?" Saemus stopped too.

"Knight Commander Guylian finally retired, didn't you hear? His successor declared that during the transition, none of the mages would be allowed out of the Gallows until everything had been reviewed."

He gaped, looking offended on her behalf. "But - you _need_ that healer, the Viscount had an agreement with the Circle! Can they do that? Just cut it off?"

She shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. "The Templars can do whatever they want. They have total power over the mages - if the new Knight Commander decides to not let any of them leave anymore, then that's just what will happen." She rubbed the ring on her right hand anxiously - Valera teased that it was the one piece of jewelry that never needed to be polished on cleaning days.

"So...what are you going to do?"

"Ser Samson is supposed to come fetch me tomorrow, and I suppose I'll have to go to the Gallows instead until this gets sorted out." She hated, _hated_ that awful place and the way the Veil felt there, raw and thread-like. The off-white of stone that had been scrubbed countless times but would never be clean, the bars on the windows, the smell of salt from the nearby ocean. She hadn't eaten fish since she returned to the Keep five years ago.

Ser Samson wasn't so bad, she'd gotten to like him over the years that he'd been assigned to her - but that didn't make it any better, having to go back.

"Well. I hope it gets sorted out _soon_."

The rest of the walk back to the Viscount’s Keep passed in comfortable silence, and she did not break it until they were close enough that the guards came into view. “I'm fine from here, Saemus. You should get home - it is getting late.”

“I will,” he replied. “Sleep well.”

"You too," Roslin whispered, and then hurried up the steps where a guard opened the door for her.

\---

**CHAPTER TWO.**

Daylight burst through the curtains as Valera pulled them aside, illuminating the faint dust motes swirling in the room. The air smelled of citron - one of the servants had been using scented oils in the halls, perhaps for dignitaries due to arrive soon.

Roslin couldn't muster the energy to care.

Today was the day she returned to the cage.

\---

“Lady Amell,” Ser Samson greeted gruffly, his Templar armor clanging in its various pieces as he straightened up. The ivy on the wall he had been leaning against was crushed.

“Good morning, Serah.” She tugged the hood of her cloak a little lower, the dark navy cloth shadowing her face. “Would you like breakfast first? Valera can have something brought straight away.” She offered every time he came, even though she knew he would refuse. It was only polite.

He sighed, shaking his head as expected. “We’d best be off. The new Knight Commander wants to meet you.”

She fell into step with him, drifting a little closer as they began down the steps into Lowtown. The cobblestones beneath her feet turned to hard, dusty dirt as the clamor of the marketplace began to fill her ears. A dark-skinned man ventured forward holding a bolt of cloth, his Antivan accent strong, but Samson shook his head at him and pulled Roslin away.

A city guard nodded at them from his post near the stalls. A little girl ran right past them, wildflowers twisted into her braids, chased by a boy who looked to be her brother. They jumped down a different flight of stairs and disappeared into the distance, the merry sound of their laughter fading with them. Samson’s mouth quirked, almost in a smile – he had a soft spot for children, Roslin knew, and he was one of the kinder Templars when bringing in mages newly come into their power.

“What’s he like?” she asked him quietly, still following him through the twisting paths of Lowtown.

“Who?”

“The new Knight Commander. What’s he like?”

Samson paused mid-step to look down at her. “You haven’t heard, then?”

“Heard what?”

“The new Knight Commander’s no man. Her name’s Meredith Stannard, she was a Captain before Guylian retired.” He continued walking, heading towards the docks where a boat to the Gallows would be waiting for them. “I don’t care either way, so long as she does her job, but there are plenty of people who aren’t happy that she got the position over one of the older templars.”

Roslin’s brows shot up, even as she hurried to keep pace with him. “A woman? But – the Gallows have never had a female Commander. There aren’t many female templars in Kirkwall.” She chewed on her lip, wondering if this would be better or worse for her.

Guylian had known Aristide for a long time – he’d been a third son of Orlesian nobility that had stayed in Kirkwall, and the two had were often seen together before Guylian joined the Order. While Aristide was not openly pro-mage in his policies, he saw their usefulness and encouraged Guylian to reward some of the trusted Enchanters with more freedom. She had little doubt their long time accord had played a part in her being allowed out of the Circle, even if on paper she was the Viscount’s court mage.

If the Amell family no longer had the advantage of knowing the Knight Commander - things might change. She couldn’t count on the new Commander’s gender for kindness, as she knew well enough that nobody got into high positions of power by being soft-hearted _._

“That doesn’t answer my question,” she said. “Do _you_ think she’s good for the job?” Samson had been her Templar ever since the treatment started, and after so many years she’d grown to trust him and his judgement. They weren’t friends, precisely, but he wouldn’t steer her wrong on purpose.

He opened his mouth and then hesitated, closing it again to roll a word around in his mouth. “She’s...strict,” he finally pronounced. “Not completely unreasonable, but word is her younger sister was a mage who lost control and killed their family and village."

Roslin winced. It was, unfortunately, a common enough story. Young children really just didn’t have the control or finesse required for their abilities, and a minor temper tantrum could sometimes have disastrous results. If that had been Meredith’s first experience with magic, she had reason to think of magic...harshly.

Today might be difficult.

\---

Samson knocked on the door to the Knight Commander’s office, four taps that alternated between hard and light. The pattern obviously had some meaning Roslin didn’t know of, as a woman’s voice replied from the other side. “Come in, Ser Samson. Bring her with you.”

Roslin swallowed hard, and then loosened her grip on her cloak to let it fall freely around her shoulders. _Show no fear,_ she thought to herself, and stepped forward into the room a step behind Samson.

She relaxed her face into a blank, calm expression as her eyes took in Meredith Stannard for the first time.

The other woman was...not uncomely. Tall and blonde, but not as stocky as one might have expected. Roslin had been expecting a tank of a woman, some giant in armour. Meredith didn't seem _that_ frightening - stern, but there were lines around her mouth that made Roslin think that Meredith might have been the sort of templar that laughed off duty like anyone else.

Still, the Knight Commander was not to be taken lightly. Her posture was as straight and proud as any of the other templars in the Order, and her face was bare of any makeup.She'd clearly gotten the position on her own ability. There was intelligence in her blue eyes, and the sword at her side looked well-sharpened.

Someone to be straightforward with then, Roslin decided.This wasn’t a person who cared for the dance of politics - but it couldn’t hurt to make a show of respect.

She did a little formal curtsy, and then raised her chin to look Meredith in the eye. “Good morning, Knight Commander. My name is Roslin Amell, Ser Samson said you wished to speak with me.”

Meredith stared downwards, studying her in return. She was a good bit taller than Roslin, who was not exactly gifted as far as her height. “Enchanter Amell,” she greeted slowly.

It was odd to hear that. Nobody had called her that in a very long time - Samson mostly met her outside the Gallows, and even Guylian had used her Hightown title since he had met her before she’d come under his care. Using the title of Enchanter didn’t seem right, in any case.

The Knight Commander ignored her discomfort. “I understand you are Viscount Aristide’s appointed...court mage,” she said, distaste coloring her words. “You are also his grand-niece by blood and thus the only one of his heirs currently residing in Kirkwall.”

“That is correct, Knight Commander, but none of my duties at the Keep involve any use of magic, as my treatment prevents that. I mostly handle social affairs and paperwork that is not important enough for the Viscount’s attention.”

“Your treatment,” Meredith nodded. “I had heard of it before, but nobody truly knew of it except for the previous Knight Commander and a few of the veteran Templars. I wish to have better understanding of it.”

“I’m afraid I’m not involved in the process of its creation at all, Knight Commander. Solivitus of the Formari is still the one who handles that, as far as I know.”

Meredith waved a hand, as if shooing the idea away. “No, that’s not what I mean. I don’t need a technical explanation, I want to know how it works and how you ended up receiving it. I prefer to hear things from a primary source, so that there are no misunderstandings. Your current position may have to be reviewed if I disagree with ex-Commander Guylian’s decision.”

Roslin’s face lost its color, and she glanced over at Samson frantically. He looked grim, shaking his head minutely at her. He hadn’t known, then.

“It’s experimental,” she started quietly. “I am currently the only subject - it requires continuous treatment, and it’s very expensive. The Circle couldn’t afford to continue it for the others.” Roslin looked down at her hands and twisted her ring some more. The strip of skin beneath it grew pink from the constant friction.

“Knight Commander Guylian wanted to stop it altogether- they weren’t making any progess, and he thought it was a waste of time. I was one of the last volunteers.”

“Why did you volunteer if you knew it had gone badly for the others?” Meredith asked.

“It wasn’t publicized - I didn’t know about the others. They only offered it to a few people, and they wouldn’t do it if you said no. A lot of people said no. But -” the silver clasp on her cloak caught the light, the Amell crest engraved into it. “They said if it worked, we could go free. The Knight Commander talked to Viscount Aristide beforehand, and Grand-Uncle sent me a letter. He told me he’d pay for it, that I could come _home._ ”

She still remembered opening the parchment, the short sentences penned in Aristide’s own spiky handwriting; the taste of hope that had bloomed over her tongue, the thought of going home to the Keep and her friends, of being able to pretend that the last few years in the Circle had never happened.

‘ _We told the nobles that you went to live with your father’s family in Ostwick,’_ he’d written, _‘That you had fallen ill and the air there would be better for you. Take the treatment, Roslin. We can say you're recovering. Weren't you friends with the Dumar boy? I'm sure he misses you. And the Keep is very lonely these days. You can help me with my work if you’d like, and we can have some pretty things made up for you. You’ve been away for so long, Roslin. Come home.’_

The fact that he’d treated her magic as something akin to a sickness, that he’d only been so eager to see her again when he discovered she could be _cured_ \- Roslin shoved the ugly thoughts back down to where they’d sat for years, poisonous and ignored.

“So it worked, and you did,” Meredith summed up. “Why are you still listed as court mage if you do not have any magical duties?”

Roslin frowned. “Regardless of the treatment, I _am_ technically a mage, as you yourself referred to me as Enchanter, Knight Commander. The position is one of the few with precedent for allowing mages to live outside the Gallows.”

“Then you know that mages cannot hold noble titles,” the Knight Commander said at last, her voice growing cold.

Ah. So _that_ was the point Meredith was really concerned with.

“I am not in the line of succession,” Roslin said easily. It was something she'd grown to accept long ago. Really, that had been true even before her magic declared itself. Even if she _hadn’t_ had other relatives, the nobles would never have let her rule alone and she wasn't strong enough to fight them. They’d have made her marry one of them, and then she would just be the Viscount’s wife. “My uncle Gamlen, the Viscount's only son, is married and has a child. If something were to happen, my uncle would return to Kirkwall and take the position.”

Meredith relaxed her posture then, obviously relieved that she would never have to deal with a mage being Viscountess of Kirkwall. "It's good to know that the Viscount has planned ahead," she said, folding her hands in front of her. "I have other questions, though. How is the treatment different from what we already use? How are you not Tranquil?"

"I still dream," Roslin said. "Rather than severing my connection to the Fade, as with the Tranquil, it removes my magical power. I technically retain the ability to cast spells, I just have no energy with which to do so. It is a modified version of concentrated magebane."

"So if you stop taking the potion, the energy would return?"

"Yes," Roslin confirmed with a nod. "The ingredients are very expensive, and brewing it takes time. It's not possible to make it for everyone right now, but it's already improved a good bit in the years I've been taking it. Someday, it should be refined enough that at least the weaker mages could be cured." There were a few here in the Gallows, mages that could barely manage anything more than a very basic Mind Blast or fire ball. There was no need for _them_ to be locked up forever.

"How is it that the demons haven't taken you, then?"

"A mage who has no power in the world is not very appealing to them, Knight Commander. They rarely come to me anymore - and in any case, my power is not diminished in the Fade. I am able to resist the ones that do."

"Tests for demonic possession are included in Lady Amell's weekly appointments, Knight Commander," Samson added in. He hadn't spoken the entire time they were in the office, and Roslin jolted at the sound of him. She'd almost forgotten he was there. "She has always tested clean."

"Good," said Meredith. "I'll let you get to those tests then. Thank you for coming in, Enchanter Amell. I'm glad we talked. I understand the previous Commander and the Viscount worked well together, I would like for our relation with the Viscount to remain positive."

"So would I, Knight Commander, I'll be sure to let my Grand-Uncle know." Samson was about to lead her out the door when Meredith called out to them.

"Before you go - what demon did you encounter during your Harrowing, Enchanter?"

Roslin twitched, biting back an abrupt laugh. So much for positive relations - Meredith had chosen the most obvious alternative to "What is your weakness?"

"I defeated a Rage demon, Knight Commander." That was the truth, after all. There was no reason to let the Knight Commander know about a man in Senior Enchanter robes, who really almost convinced her that he was her friend. Let Meredith judge her character with what she told her.

"Rage." Meredith's voice was cool, with a faint note of surprise. "I see."

"Yes. Have a good day, Knight Commander."

\---

**CHAPTER THREE.**

Six months passed.

Nathaniel Howe left Kirkwall for Ostwick, the next stop on his squiring tour through the Free Marches, leaving Saemus quiet and strange for a few days despite Roslin’s best attempts to cheer him up.

Ships began to arrive from Ferelden, full of refugees from Gwaren and deserters from the army. They claimed that a Blight had hit the country, that darkspawn were flooding through the south.

The news from the next few ships changed everything.

“ _King Cailan is dead at Ostagar.”_

Suddenly, the arriving ships became a flood that Kirkwall’s gates could no longer contain. Darktown had never had so many inhabitants at one time, and the roar of frustrated, hungry, tired people rang through the Gallows for days. The mages were restricted to the inner towers and upper floors so that they wouldn't run into the refugees.

The city guards began to turn ships back – there simply wasn’t any more _room_ , Kirkwall was not meant to handle the population of another country. Despite this, the flood of people refused to cease.

Aristide, busy with sending envoys to Ferelden, sent his grandniece to check on the situation.

\---

“Revka! Revka, is that you?”

Roslin turned at the shout, confused. There was an older woman waving at her as she approached, accompanied by two young men who were probably her sons.

“Revka was my mother,” she replied. “She's been dead for years. Who are you?”

The woman looked taken aback. “Revka’s daughter? You must be Roslin, she sent me a letter when you were born. You look so much like her when she was young." She clasped Roslin's hands between her own, which were warm and well cared for despite her age. "I’m your Aunt Leandra. We’ve just come from Ferelden.”

Roslin blinked, and then looked her over again. There was a small portrait of Leandra Amell in Aristide’s office, and Roslin had spent more than a few hours looking at it over piles of paperwork. The portrait was of a younger woman, obviously, but her aunt had aged well. There was little doubt in her mind that this was the same woman.

“It's lovely to meet you," she managed. "Why have you stayed here with the other refugees? There’s always empty rooms at the Keep, and the Amell estate is open as well. I’m sure Grand-Uncle would be happy to see you.”

The younger of the sons – her cousins, Roslin supposed – scowled and jerked a thumb in the direction of the city guards. “They won’t listen to her,” he said. “They wouldn’t even let us send a message to get confirmation, just shoved us to the back. We were starting to think we'd be stuck here forever. ”

“…Really,” Roslin said, unamused. The guards ought to know better than to ignore such a claim - even if it had been a false alarm, Aristide would have wanted to know. "We'll see about that."

She spotted the captain of the city guard across the courtyard and marched over to him, her aunt and cousins trailing behind.

"Captain Ewald," Roslin said, calling his attention. "I've been made aware that you have not allowed these three to send a message to their relatives. You know exceptions are allowed into the city if a citizen is willing to take them in."

The captain, not looking at her, rolled his eyes. "These three? They've been claiming to be _Amells_. Anyone could open a book, see the most important family in Kirkwall, and pretend to be a relation. I didn't want to bother the Keep."

"I assure you, the Keep would not have been _bothered_ ," Roslin lowered her voice, glaring up at the man. He finally lowered his head to face her, and went white at the sight of the clasp on her cloak.

"Lady Amell! I - I'm sorry, I didn't know the Viscount had sent you to observe the situation. How do you want me to deal with them? I can have them on the next ship out -"

"You are speaking to the wrong person," she cut him off, and then beckoned Leandra closer. " _This_ is the true Lady Amell, my aunt Leandra. Did it not occur to you that my Grand-Uncle would like to know his daughter had returned?"

The man went whiter still, eyes wide with horror. "You mean - you mean they were telling the _truth_? They're really - "

" _Yes_ , you idiot - " Roslin bit her lip, stopping midsentence with a noise of frustration. "I want two of your gaurds to escort us to the Keep straightaway, and don't think I'll forget your incompetence when your post is reviewed next year." There'd been murmurs of him accepting bribes, but nothing as substantial as this.

"I - of course, I'm terribly sorry for the misunderstanding," Ewald said frantically, dashing away to find two of his men who weren't busy yet.

"Baby cousin is vicious if you make her mad, good to know," commented one of her cousins from behind her. He was older than her, dark haired and dark eyed with an easy smile. Garrett, if she remembered correctly from Leandra's own letters.

"Family is special," she told him, her expression softening.

\---

Roslin was up early the next morning, sitting beside a pile that needed to be reviewed. If only she could hire someone to do it for her.

Unexpectedly, Valera poked her head through the doorway.

“Lady Roslin, your cousin is wandering around the halls. Should I call him in?”

She glanced up from the accounts on the desk, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “Really? I thought they’d be tired from yesterday...which one of them is it, Valera?”

“The younger one, milady.”

Carver, then. He was almost the same age as her, Roslin mused. There were only a couple months between their birthdays. She hadn’t spoken much with him yet, but she'd like to. Nothing in the paperwork was particularly important, and she hardly had to get dressed up to see her cousin, did she?

“Ask him in, please. It would be nice to talk to him for a bit,” she decided, closing the books shut. Seneschal Bran always got so annoyed when they weren’t filed back in his specific system, so she headed over to the bookshelves by the wall and checked the label.

Oh.

“Have you _shrunk?”_ came a voice from behind her, sounding rough and bemused. “I’m sure you weren’t this short when we met yesterday.”

“You are just very tall, cousin,” she replied, turning towards him with a little frown. “Good morning to you as well!”

Carver grinned, hands shoved deep into his pants pockets. They were his own clothes, she could tell, since the servants in the Keep would never have put anything like that in his closet. “Don’t be mad, I’m teasing. Do you need to put that book back?”

“...Yes,” Roslin admitted reluctantly. “Bran hates for them to be out of order, but his system means this one goes on the top shelf between the two blue ones.”

“Yeah, I see them,” Carver nodded. He took the book and fitted it up in its place. He didn’t even need to go on his toes, Roslin noted with a little sigh.

“I haven’t shrunk,” she informed him stiffly. “I’m always this height, I just wear heeled shoes when I go out.” She really hadn’t grown much - if at all - since the treatment began, and her 14 year old self had not quite had a growth spurt. Valera, even as an elf, had a half inch on Roslin in bare feet.

He winced at the words. Bethany had hated the low heels that Leandra insisted on for special occasions, and the ones Roslin wore had to be at least four inches high.

...Bethany probably would have liked Roslin even if she did wear ridiculous shoes, though. (Bethany liked _everyone._ And everyone loved her back, it should have been-)

“Cousin?”

Carver jolted. “Wha-”

Roslin tilted her head in concern, looking at him carefully. “Are you...” The words died in her mouth. Of _course_ he wasn’t alright, that was a pointless question. Nobody could be alright after all that her cousins had been through.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked quietly. “We don’t have to. We could talk about the dinner party Grand-Uncle will have to hold instead, and how I’ll sic Valera on you if you try to wear what you are now. She can be scary.”

It earned a chuckle from Carver, as she’d hoped. “I’m sure she is. We can....talk about that,” he shrugged, glancing around awkwardly. “It’s not really my thing, though.” He wasn’t ready to talk about Bethany to anyone. He still half expected to wake up on his cot in Lothering, his twin’s soft snuffling ( _Not snoring!_ she’d always insisted) filling up the morning quiet. Instead, he’d tossed and turned on the too-soft mattress here at the Keep and wondered what the hell was going to happen now.

Roslin pointed him towards a chair and dragged her own over so that they could face each other. “Firstly, if we’re going to talk, you can call me by my name.”

“You don’t use mine either,” he pointed out. “It’s Carver, in case you’ve forgotten.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve known your name for years. Aunt Leandra did send letters. But I forgot, Fereldans don’t usually use titles. It’s a bit unusual to call someone by their given name here unless you know them well, but like I said - family's special.”

“Titles? You mean I’ve got to memorize a bunch of noble “Lord of such and such”es?” he grumbled, looking surly.

“It’s not like that, I’ll teach you,” Roslin promised. “You’ll have to learn before the party, but it shouldn’t really be an issue. You'll outrank most of them.”

“...I was hoping you were joking about the dinner thing.”

“Not at all,” she said with a sheepish sort of smile. “Grand-Uncle doesn’t like hosting them, but he can’t avoid it now that you all are here.”

“Why’s it matter?” He reached up to scratch the back of his neck and then pressed on the sore muscles there, stiff from a night of poor sleep. “I mean, I know it was a big deal when my parents eloped, but -”

Roslin gave him an odd look. “Haven’t you realized? The party’s not for Aunt Leandra, it’s for you and your brother. Grand-Uncle finally has heirs for the position. It’s been a concern since he’s getting older, but you two being here should calm the nobles down for a good while.”

“... _Heirs,”_ Carver repeated, sounding horrified. “You mean - but you were here first - You don’t mean our coming here has gotten you kicked out? I don’t know what the hell to do as Viscount, you’re the one up at sunrise doing his paperwork!”

“I haven’t been kicked out of _anything_ Carver. You’re his grandson, I’m only his grandniece. Direct descendents get priority, and I couldn’t have inherited on my own anyways.” She shrugged. “Uncle Gamlen coming back was the emergency plan until you showed up.”

“That’s stupid,” he said bluntly, looking annoyed. “You obviously know how stuff works around here, and you have to be smart since he trusts you to help him with his work, but you can’t be Viscount ‘cause Garrett was born first?"

 _Well, I'm also a mage,_ Roslin thought, lips pressed tight - but Aristide had pulled her aside last night and told her that Leandra and her sons would not be given the details on her ‘weak disposition’ until a later time, if ever. “I’m sick,” she answered after a small pause. “Not like a cold, it's permanent. If I wasn’t, I would marry Saemus - I’ll introduce you later, he’s my friend - and he’d probably let me share the power with him. But there’s no way I could inherit with my health the way it is.”

Carver stared at her, picking up on the paleness of her skin and the faint, uncontrollable tremor of her hands as she clasped them tightly in her lap. She was small for her age, not just short but _thin,_ in a way that almost made it seem like she didn’t eat enough even if he knew that couldn’t be the case.

“Bethany could - “ he began, and then bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood.

Bethany couldn’t heal anyone now.

“The mages around here can’t fix it?” he asked instead, glossing over his previous words. Roslin looked at him with a bit of surprise. "What?"

She shook her head, looking distracted. "Nothing, just - nobody ever asks about the mages first," she admits. "It's always 'Go to the Chantry and pray' or 'Maybe this blessed water can cure you'."

"My dad was a mage," Carver pointed out. "I grew up with him healing me every time I fell or fought with Garrett. Magic's good for that stuff."

Roslin sighed. She'd never had the knack for Spirit Healing - that would have been more acceptable.

“I do go to the Circle once a week for a check up and I have a potion from them that...helps, but all they can do is keep it from getting worse. There are good days and bad days,” she told him, tucking a bit of loose hair behind her ear and shivering. “It’s not contagious,” she assured him. “It’s something I was born with. It won’t kill me.”

 _The medicine might,_ she didn't say. It had been true when she volunteered, and Aristide hadn't blinked an eye about encouraging her to take it. It was worth it.

"Well...that sucks," Carver said, quieter than usual. His mouth was turned downwards. "I'd say I'm sorry, but that doesn't do anything."

Roslin found herself smiling. It was rather refreshing to have someone just acknowledge it, without any of the awkward tip-toeing in deference to politeness. "You don't have to do anything," she assured him. "I just thought you should know."

He nodded stiffly, and blowed the hair that was falling into his eyes away. "So. Titles. How do those things work?"

\---

**CHAPTER FOUR.**

“Does this happen…often?”

Roslin gazed out over the rising onto the floor of the Keep, where the nobles had swarmed together and Garrett was cheerfully holding court. Beside her, Carver tugged at the high collar of his blue shirt, looking more and more uncomfortable with each passing minute.

“…You learn to deal with it,” she said, trying not to lie. “I’m usually the one who has to attend; you probably won’t have to go to all of them.”

Carver snorted and jerked his chin down at the sight of his brother. “ _Garrett_ seems to have picked it up pretty fast. He always wants attention; this is a dream for him.”

“You two don’t get along very well, do you?” Roslin didn’t really expect an answer to that – it was fairly obvious.

“Now who’s not getting along? The party’s just started!”

Carver glanced around, startled. A dwarf in fine clothing grinned up at him, and did a little bow. “I thought I ought to introduce myself. Varric’s the name, of House Tethras.”

Roslin perked her ears at that. “Tethras? I’ve met your brother Bartrand. You’re in the Dwarven Merchant Guild, aren’t you?”

Varric gave her nod. “Trust Lady Amell to know. My brother’s the head of the House, but he’s busy plotting our expedition so I came in his place.”

“Expedition?” Carver asked, finally looking a little less bored than he had all evening. “Where to?”

“We’re dwarves, where else but the Deep Roads?” Varric chuckled. “Bartrand’s convinced there’s a lost thaig not far from here, we’ve been making plans for months.”

“That’d a pretty big deal right? If you found it, I mean.” Roslin glanced over and saw the spark of excitement in Carver’s eyes as he asked.

“Well,” Varric rubbed the back of his neck, “I’m hoping we’ll find _something_. But yeah, it would be a pretty big deal. Most thaigs have been lost for centuries, plenty of secrets and riches out there to uncover. We’ve been having some issues getting it all together though, so I don’t know how much longer it’ll take for us to set off.”

Roslin’s attention began to wander. A Deep Roads expedition was intriguing but had nothing particularly to do with her – she didn’t know anything about it, and she wasn’t the guild’s usual liaison. Garrett was still downstairs in the main hall, and she had half a mind to join him just to be back on familiar ground.

On the other hand, Carver looked alive for the first time all night. “There’ll be lots of darkspawn down there, won't there?”

“Don’t look so happy about it,” the dwarf grumbled. “That’s been a part of the problem, getting capable fighters on board. Nobody really wants to spend a couple weeks underground killing shrieks and genlocks and who knows what.”

The younger Hawke brother said, with a scowl, “I’d be up for thinning them out.” Darkspawn were, of course, a rather personal vendetta for her cousins. Garrett was adjusting quiet well to life as a noble, but Carver was still unhappy; feeling out of place and still under the shadow of his older brother, not to mention haunted by the loss of his twin sister. She had a feeling that he was much bitterer than he once had been – sometimes Aunt Leandra looked at him very sadly, or at the distinct emptiness on his left side.

Perhaps the expedition could take his mind off things. A chance to do something for himself, unrelated to the family, might do him some good.

Varric glanced over at her and chuckled at her look of disinterest. “I'll let you two get on with what you were doing. If Messere Hawke is interested in talking about this later, you can usually find me at the Hanged Man in Lowtown."

"Might take you up on that," Carver said with a sharp nod.

Roslin had a feeling it was more of a definite.

\---

Roslin was preparing to leave for the Gallows the next morning when Garrett caught her in the hallway.

"Mornin’ cuz," he greeted her. She'd attempted to correct him of the habit, but he was terribly fond of the nickname. His hair was in total disarray, she noted with exasperation. "Where are you headed this early?"

"Ser Samson has to escort me to my appointment at the Gallows for the week," she told him. Her cousin fell into step with her and walked her down the grand staircase to the front gates. "I used to have a healer come here, but the new Knight Commander is stricter than Commander Guylian was. She won't let them leave."

"Ser Samson, huh?" Garrett said, sing-song, as they left the Keep. He could see a tall figure in templar armour standing by the gates. He wasn't wearing a helmet. "He's a little old for you, isn't he?"

" _Garrett_ ," Roslin hissed, "It's not like that at all. He's just the one they always send."

"Whatever you say," he smirked back at her, his brown eyes crinkling around the edges.

\---

**CHAPTER FIVE.**

Garrett really needed to keep his mouth shut.

More than a couple servants overheard his teasing over the next few days, and it became a popular rumour all through Hightown. There was some dissent on how responsible Roslin was in all of it – was she fully aware, and if so what of poor Saemus Dumar? – versus those who thought that her Templar escort had been taking advantage of her while he should have be protecting her in case her healers tried anything.

It ends up catching Meredith’s attention, who hated the thought of the Templar Order’s name being besmirched in such a way.

\---

"Good morning, Lady Amell."

Roslin paused midstep, eying the man suspiciously. He was in templar armour, but she didn't think they'd ever met before. "Good morning, Serah," she said hesitantly. "Where is Ser Samson?"

"Ser Samson has been dismissed from the Order," the man said, eyes cold and sneering despite the poor attempt at a regretful smile on his face. "The Knight Commander thought it prudent, considering all the talk of his...taking advantage of you. I'm sure you're happy to have him gone."

She gaped at him in horror. " _Dismissed?_ But Ser Samson hasn't done anything at all - the Hightown ladies always want something to gossip about. "

"You don't have to lie, he can't hurt you anymore," the templar assured her. "I'm Ser Karras, one of the Knight Lieutenants. The Knight Commander has assigned me to be your new escort."

"I..." Roslin trailed off, dismayed. She'd never thought Garrett's teasing would get so out of hand. And Karras - the name was strangely familiar, although she didn't know from where. Perhaps a minor nobility?

"We should get moving," he said, moving to grab her hand. Roslin thought, for a moment, that he meant to place it on his arm in the old fashioned way, but instead his metal gauntlets squeezed tightly around her wrist as he leaned in. "I'm not like Ser Samson at all, Lady Amell. The Knight Commander seems to think you're not trouble for now, but we both know better than to trust a mage."

She struggled against his grip, which he loosened before it bruised. "Understood, serah," she replied, her face pale.

She twisted her ring the whole walk down to the docks, and finally remembered in the boat why the name was so familiar. Years ago, when she had still been an apprentice, he had been one of the templars that everyone whispered about after hours in the dormitories.

" _Don't ever let him catch you alone,"_ Elsa had warned her once. " _He...does things, they say, and he'll have you made Tranquil if you ever tell."_

Elsa was Meredith's favorite assistant now.

\---

Karras wasn't stupid.

He knew Meredith had assigned him to the Amell girl for a reason - she could trust him to keep a close eye on the mage. And he would.

He also knew this wasn't one of the apprentices or Tranquil locked up in the Gallows. He'd have to tread carefully - Roslin Amell had power completely unrelated to her cursed magic, and if he wasn't mindful _he'd_ be the next to be dismissed. He wouldn't touch her, but there was more than one way to keep a mage in line.

\---

Garrett woke up early enough to see Roslin out the gates a few weeks later. She'd been furious with him since the rumours about her and that dark haired Templar had circulated through the nobility. He hadn't _meant_ for that to happen - how was he to know that the servants were such gossips? She wouldn't talk to him during the day, but perhaps if he caught her before she left she might let him apologize.

He reached the door at the same time as Roslin, who glared up at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Cuz - Roslin? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, her voice hoarse. "It's time for my appointment, good morning Garrett."

He glanced out, and made a confused sound when he saw the templar had dark gold hair rather than brunette. "Hey, where's Ser Samson? I thought he was permanently assigned to you."

"Your stupid teasing got him dismissed from the Order," she replied sharply. "That's...that's Ser Karras. I have to go. He doesn't like it when we're late."

She hurried out to the gates without any further words, and Garrett watched as the templar led her away. He wasn't sure what was going on, but it was certainly something very odd.

He asked Carver about it later - he knew his younger brother was a bit closer to their cousin - but Carver shrugged. "I've been busy, Roslin hasn't told me anything. I'm not surprised though - you've always been good at ruining everything with your big mouth."

\---

 **CHAPTER SIX**.

Carver started coming home hurt. At first they were small things, the sort of injuries you could believe came from scrapping with some thugs in Lowtown or in an argument with a drunken sailor at one of the pubs down by the docks. Nothing especially worrying.

Except, one day he came home covered in blood, and wouldn't tell anyone what happened to him before he collapsed. Garrett ran down to Lowtown to see if anyone knew what had happened while Roslin ordered people around to get him bandaged up, pacing around his bed in a frantic vigil.

\---

"I found this guy who says he knows Carver," Garrett said. He had returned with a scruffy man in ragged clothing. "His name is Anders, he says that he can help."

Roslin looked him over quickly, confused at how this stranger was supposed to do anything. His blonde hair was dirty and tied back, and he wore a mantle of _feathers_ over his dark teal jacket, which covered - a belt with potion bottles.

Familiar bottles.

" _Apostate_ ," she hissed, her eyes wide and flickering over to the door to make sure it was closed. "Are you _stupid?_ This is the Viscount's Keep, of all the places to come! How does Carver even know you?"

Anders took a step back and stared at her, equally stunned. "How did you-?"

She waved at the belt, rolling her eyes. "You're a step ahead of most by not dragging a staff along, but those are lyrium potions you've got on you. Cheap ones," she wrinkled her nose, "But lyrium all the same."

"How do you know that's lyrium?" Garrett piped up, curious.

"I -" She paused for a half second, cursing herself mentally for having spoken without thinking. She couldn't tell him about feeling pulled towards it, about knowing that just _one_ of the bottles would be enough to cure the headache she'd had growing all day or the shivers that wouldn't leave no matter how many layers she wore. "I visit the Gallows often enough, my healer uses them a lot. They're fairly recognizable. The good ones glow a lot brighter."

The apostate looked at her in suspicion, and mouthed a few words soundlessly; almost as if he were...arguing with himself?

"Look, Carver needs to be healed," Garrett said, trying to ease the tension. "Can we just focus on my brother?"

Anders glanced at Roslin, who crossed her arms and nodded with a frown. "I know how to keep a secret. Get it over with."

She watched with more than a little longing as he drew white-blue light to his hands, eyes glowing softly. The man was a Spirit Healer, a gifted one at that. If only she'd been like him...

\---

When he awoke, Carver revealed that he'd officially joined in on the Tethras brothers' business plans.

"I've been collecting some people to come on the expedition when it's ready to set out. I don't want to invest Amell money, so I've been out doing jobs to earn some gold." He jerked his head in the healer's direction and added, "Met Anders while looking for maps of the Deep Roads. He's a Grey Warden."

"Ex-Warden," Anders specified with a flat smile. "Come to the clinic next time instead of scaring your family by showing up at home half-dead, Hawke."

He and Roslin shared another exchange of suspicious glances before the mage left.

\---

Garrett and Carver disappeared together a week later, citing some sort of debt they needed to deal with up on Sundermount. They returned bickering with each other, Carver accusing Garrett of trying to show off to someone named Isabela when he hadn't even practiced with his daggers since they got to Kirkwall. Both were injured, though not as bad as last time, and they come home with...an elf.

"No, I can't hire her Garrett!" It was hopelessly obvious that the long, crooked piece of wood on Merrill's back was a _staff_. Why must her cousins keep befriending mages? This was ridiculous. "I can introduce her to Valera, see if there's a place in the Alienage for her?" If she was Dalish she was probably trained enough that she wouldn't have any outbursts, and people tended to ignore the elves down in Lowtown. It was the safest place Roslin could think of, for now.

Later, her maid let her know she had helped the Dalish girl get situated in the Alienage. "Good job, Valera. Thank you for dealing with this," Roslin told her, after which she wiped her hands of the whole thing.

[If she could accept Saemus for who he was, she wouldn't say anything about the posy of wildflowers she saw Carver carrying around.]

\---

 **CHAPTER SEVEN.**  
  
Garrett occasionally joined Carver on his jobs now, and Roslin suspected it had a lot more to do with the mysterious Isabela than he'd like to admit. Her older cousin had been dealing quite well with his new status, and she'd almost forgotten that he was a rogue, that the daggers that hung on his walls were more than ornamentation.

When it came time for the expedition to leave however, Garrett stayed behind - it was one thing for the Viscount's heirs to tramp around Lowtown, and another entirely for the firstborn heir to risk his life down in the Deep Roads. Leandra had tearfully begged her younger son not to go, but he'd struggled out of her embrace and insisted on leaving anyways.

Roslin, who was really rather fond of Carver at this point, wished she could convince him that he didn't have to do this to 'earn a name' for himself. "I'll miss you," she whispered to him while throwing her arms around his neck. He had to lean down for the hug, but he chuckled and patted her on the back.

"I'll bring back something shiny for you," Carver grinned. Behind him were Merrill and another elf that he'd picked up along the way - "That's Fenris, and yes he really can use that thing," she'd been told when caught staring at the humongous greatsword strapped to his back. The elf had grunted and nodded stiffly to her.

Merrill on the other hand, bounced right up to her with a cheery smily. "It's nice to see you again! Thank you for helping me settle - your city is really quite interesting."

"I'm...glad you're settling well," Roslin managed, quirking an eyebrow. "Good luck on the expedition."

"Daisy! Come on, you too Broody. Let's go!" called Varric.

Carver waved again, followed his friends, and disappeared with the Tethras brothers for more than a month.

\---

Garrett was in the Hanged Man, drinking and flirting with Isabela, offering up free drinks at random to the bustling crowd. His brother had been gone for much longer than expected, and word was that they might not return at all at this rate. He didn't want to deal with it.

Suddenly, the door slammed open. Roslin stomped into the tavern and walked right up to him, eyes blazing. "Garrett Hawke! Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you? Aunt Leandra's a mess at the Keep, and Grand-Uncle's having a fit, and - and -" her voice broke, and she brought a hand up to her eyes with a startled flush. Isabela jumped to her feet and made a soft noise, patting the younger girl on the back and calming her down.

"Cuz?" Garrett said, looking up at her blearily. He'd had more drinks than he could count, not expecting to be needed back home till the next day. "What's - what's up?" He hiccuped.

"They came back," she whispered, swallowing visibly. "They came back and - Garrett, Carver's not with them. He's not. He's not," she bit her lip and rubbed at eyes furiously, the tear tracks on her cheeks glinting in the dim light of the tavern. "He's not coming back."

This was when Garrett's world fell to pieces all over again.

Carver was - _dead_ , the word felt awful and wrong even in the confines of his mind. He'd failed, failed _again,_ to protect his last sibling. He'd let himself get distracted by all the privelege he'd suddenly had dropped in his lap, the freedom of not having to pick up his life constantly and struggle through each and every day.

He made a promise to himself right then and there that Roslin would be different. The twins, especially Carver, knew (had known) how to fight, and to take care of themselves to some extent. He'd not been as responsible as he should have been because some part of him had believed that scrappy Carver and sweet Bethany would always manage, would be able to handle things when he wasn't around. Roslin...was a very different creature. He _had_ to do his best by her.

Starting now.

Garrett pulled himself up to his feet, steading himself on the table. Apparently cold, sudden grief was the best cure for drunkenness. "Let's go home, Roslin."

\---

The whole story spilled out once they returned to the Keep together and found two very wounded elves and a dwarf sitting in the main hall, still being bandaged up (with no magic) by Anders.

The entire expedition had gone to hell, apparently. When they found an old thaig, Bartrand had gone mad and Carver had killed him. They'd left the lyrium idol where they found it and closed the door to the chamber, thinking it was better off down there than in the hands of someone on the surface.

They had almost made it out when Carver began succumbing to the Taint and died. There wasn't even a body to be buried in the family plots - Merrill had burned it, as Carver had asked, to rid his corpse of the poison.

As Varric told the story, Anders went pale, and returned to his clinic at the end without saying anything at all. Carver had asked, grudgingly, if Anders would come along - a healer and a Grey Warden would have been a great addition to their party, regardless of the difficulties in their personal relationship, but Anders had rejected him outright.

He might have saved him. He'd stolen the maps from the Wardens, they were in the area. If they'd found them in time, Carver might have passed the Joining. It hadn't been the life Anders wanted, but the young Hawke brother could have done well enough. Might even have liked it, knowing him.

Carver had...irritated him, but Anders hadn't wanted him _dead_. He saw the way that Garrett frayed at the edges now, no longer as proud as he used to be, and told Justice to shut up when the spirit made noises about the girl. The spirit was convinced something was wrong with her, but Anders suspected it was just the magical residue from her weekly healing appointments.

He owed Roslin Amell and Garrett Hawke a debt, regardless of whether or not they were aware of it.

\---

**CHAPTER EIGHT.**

One and a half years later, the Qunari landed in Kirkwall. The news terrified the nobles - Kirkwall had no standing army, and while Carver Hawke had rooted out the corruption of the city gaurd during his short time in the city, it still wasn't as strong enough force to combat the Qunari if they had come to invade.

Luckily, they hadn't.

Aristide ended up sending Roslin and Garrett together, unsure of what qualities would earn more respect from the great horned giants now on their beach. The Arishok received them with more grace than expected, approving of the combination. Apparently females were traditionally administrators in their culture, which explained why few were seen outside Par Vollen. She'd assumed they were patriarchal, but perhaps that wasn't the case.

Despite this, Roslin went home to tell her grand-uncle that Garrett should be their official diplomat with the Qunari.

She might have be a little scared. There were five that had stood apart from the others, that were bound in chains with a thick metal collar, their lips sewn shut. Garrett had asked after them, and the Arishok had named them _saarebaas -_ a dangerous thing.

The Qunari had strong opinions about _bas_ , outsiders, but apparently even stronger ones about mages.

Roslin would rather not push her luck.

\---

Saemus grew more and more interested in the horned men as they moved into the compound in the docks that Aristide had finally had set aside for them. Roslin wasn't sure what to make of this – she wasn’t very religious, all things considered, but the Qunari's ways frightened her just as much as they seemed to intrigue her best friend. He spent days wandering near the Compound and their patrols, until he even managed to befriend one of their scouts.

"You keep saying the name Ashaad," Roslin said one day while walking with him through the market. "I don't think I've heard you mention anyone this often since Nathaniel. He's a _Qunari,_ Saemus."

"You mean _kossith_ ," Saemus responded, avoiding her eye. "The Qun is their religion, anyone can be a Qunari. And Ashaad's not his name, it's their word for scout. They only have titles."

She stopped what she was doing, still holding a sample of cloth in one hand as she looked over at him with raised eyebrows. "You've spent enough time with them to learn that," Roslin said. It wasn't a question. "Garrett's our official diplomat and I don't think even he knows that."

Saemus didn't respond.

"Saemus?" she prodded hesitantly, dropping the cloth to step closer to him. "I just - you're always with him. People are talking. You _know_ you're my best friend, I don't want to judge, but you have to admit it's a little strange -"

"We're just as strange to _them_ ," he pointed out. "They're stuck here, I'm just making friends. Their culture is...fascinating."

"Fascinating," Roslin repeated flatly. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're thinking about converting."

They stared at each other for a good while, and then abruptly Saemus left her where she stood.

Roslin wasn’t sure what had just happened except...Saemus started disappearing more and more often from Hightown, and began claiming to be 'too busy' to see her.

She went home and asked Garrett if he knew what kossith were, hoping it was perhaps more common knowledge than she'd thought. 

He didn't.

\---

Between his duties with the Qunari and the constant missions to prove himself to them, Garrett occasionally picked up where Carver left off when Varric brought news of jobs. In the past year or so, the rag-tag group that his brother had formed still lingered, and they were sometimes willing to come with Garrett. It was odd knowing that for once, what he had were his younger brother's leftovers; that when they followed him on missions it was for the sake of Carver's memory. Varric still referred to Carver as 'Hawke', which was...disorienting, to say the least.

During one such quest, he was told to get in contact with an ex-templar who hung around Lowtown at night. The man apparently had a soft spot for children, and might know where the missing elf boy was.

It turned out to be Samson. Samson, whose life Garrett had quite possibly ruined.

Samson was delirious from lyrium withdrawal, and only laughed, low and raw, when Garrett told him that Roslin still wished he were her escort. "You don't know anything about that girl," Samson rasped, "But you won't hear it from me. Watch Karras. He's got a reputation."

Garrett didn't know what any of that meant, but Samson stopped hanging around his usual spot, and Garrett never found him again to ask.

\---

**CHAPTER NINE.**

There were rumors about women going missing, and Garrett took a break from everything else to look further into the matter. With both his mother and his cousin to think of, and already at least one woman from the nobility lost, he was rather invested in it.

Soon after he found the remains of Ninette de Carrac, Garrett came home with Isabela to find white lilies in a vase by the door. He stopped midstep, horrified as he recognized them for what they were.

Leandra soon proved to be safe and sound, simply visiting an old friend for the afternoon, but Roslin was nowhere to be found.

"She thought they might be from Brett Harimann," Valera said breathlessly, desperate tears in her eyes. "There was no name, only a note to meet him somewhere, and she thought she ought to go just to straighten things out. Oh, I _thought_ it was strange! Messere Harimann would never ask to meet in Lowtown - "

"We'll find her," Isabela reassurred the elf. "Where exactly in Lowtown did Roslin go?"

\---

Roslin woke up, and the world was dark and moist, smelling of blood and rot and smoke. She retched and struggled to stand, but couldn't because of the ropes that tied her to a chair. It looked like she was inside of an abandoned warehouse. There were enough of them near the docks.

An older man, obviously a mage with his ornate stave, stood over her. He seemed impressed when she did not scream or cry; instead she pursed her lips tightly and bit the inside of her cheek, focusing on the sharp pain to clear the haze of her mind. He'd drugged her with something - a memory of an old man leaning against the side of a rundown building flashed in her mind. She'd gone over, thinking he needed help...

"You _are_ your mother's daughter," he said, interrupting her thoughts and looking pleased. She didn't know what that meant. She'd been told for years that she was a mirror image of Revka, but she had been so young when her mother passed that Roslin didn’t remember much of her.

"You look very similar..." he trailed off, stroking her cheek with rough fingers, paper-thin skin stretched over his bones. She shuddered and tried to pull away, the rope leaving red marks on her wrists as she struggled.

"What do you _want_ from me?"

"Oh, just your face, little one. I've collected most of the other parts - the rest of you has too much of that man, but you look just like she did all those years ago. She was very beautiful..."

"My _face_ -” she choked on the words, with sudden horrid understanding, eyes noticing the blood dried up beneath the man's fingernails. The smell came, she realized with a sudden lurch of revulsion, from the partially assembled body that was propped up in a chair in the corner. This man was insane, and a maleficar, and she...she really might die down here.

The fear came fast and thick, hitting her along with a sudden wave of nausea. She was suddenly keenly aware of a sense of heaviness, of gravity, and something thrummed wildly in the back of her mind. She had never been so terribly, incredibly glad to feel that.

He had made a mistake, taking her. It had been 3 days since she last had her dose of the treatment, and with a little luck...

The first spell caught them _both_ off guard. It knocked him to the ground, and everything around them for a good two or three yards was thrown about. Her hands were on fire in the next moment, burning the ropes and the chair. It had never been her best element, but force magic required more power than she had to spare at the moment.

"You won't touch me," Roslin hissed, jumping to her feet and backing away, but the man only looked at her with fresh, astonished eyes – it was a clearer, more sane gaze than he'd had since she woken up.

"You - you have _magic!_ But that's impossible, they would have - you're not in the Circle. And I didn't sense it. You had no mana this morning, I wouldn't have missed that." He rose, but didn't reach for spells - just for her, with shaking, human hands. "When were you born?

"How does that matter?"

"Oh, it matters," he promised her. "It matters; this makes things very different -”

"Roslin!"

She turned at the shout, still glowing and terrified, the ground beneath her feet trembling violently enough that it was just short of a proper earthquake.

Garrett rushed in with Fenris, Anders and Isabela.

\---

His cousin was on fire, and for a horrible moment he thought the murderer was burning her alive, but then Fenris growled, " _Mage!_ " and Anders' eyes glowed Justice-blue, shouting something incomprehensible.

Roslin ignored them all to run for him, the fire trailing away into only sparks. Garrett put aside his confusion and grabbed her, unafraid of the wisps - he'd seen them often enough from Bethany that he knew they didn't hurt - and pulled her behind him. "Are you alright? Has he -"

"Nothing, I'm fine," she said, trying not to shiver and failing. The adrenaline burst was easing off, replaced with the overwhelming exhaustion of casting again after years of not using her magic. "Garrett, he knew my mother, I don't understand -"

"You don't need to, you're safe, he's not going to get you," Garrett swore, squeezing her hands tightly in his own. For once, he hadn't been too late.

"She's _mine,"_ came a voice from behind them. Quentin raised his sceptre and began to summon possessed desire demons, looking crazed. Garrett turned his focus to him, and his companions put their commentary on hold to fall into battle.

Roslin felt no regret when Quentin died, only pure and utter relief.

Garrett pulled off his jacket and tucked it around her shoulders, and then Isabela took her gently by the arm to lead her out of the Foundry, her skin warm and smooth against Roslin’s. None of them looked back at the portrait of a woman who looked eerily like her.

\---

In the aftermath, she sat down in Varric's room and explained the whole thing to Garrett and his friends.

"So for those of you who...who weren't there," she began quietly, "I'm...it's easier to show you." She cupped her hands and focused carefully, unfolding them to reveal a wisp of green light. It was an elementary spell, but even something as small as that took most of her mana.

"So Princess is a mage," Varric said slowly, blinking at the wisp. "Didn't see that coming."

"I'm sorry for not telling you," Roslin murmured, glancing over at her cousin. "Grand-Uncle told me not to, the very first night you came to Kirkwall. I would have otherwise."

"So _that's_ what your appointments were for," Garrett said, realization slowly spreading over his face. "Checking in with the templars to make sure you were still being good."

"Not - exactly," Roslin hedged.

"What I don't understand," Anders piped up, arms crossed, "Is how you managed to trick _Justice._ He was always suspicious, but he didn't sense mana in you. I can't believe you've been a mage outside of the Circle for this long. How much money did you have to bribe the templars with?"

She turned to him and imitated his pose, scowling. "Enough to pay for an experimental treatment - and speaking of secrets, _an abomination?_ Really, Garrett?"

"I am _not an abomination_ ," Anders snarled, a low echo backing up his words. "Justice is a spirit, not a demon! But you would know that if you were in _the Circle_ , like all the people who can't afford to just pay their way out!"

"They Harrowed me at fourteen!" Roslin said, her voice rising furiously. "I know you might not think much of me for hiding it, but at least I haven't been as _stupid_ as you!"

"You think beind Harrowed young makes you _special?_ " Anders sneered back. "I was Wynne's best pupil back in Ferelden, I would have been their darling prodigy if I just rolled over and let the templars do what they wanted. Justice and I fight the system because it's _wrong_ , not because I was bad at it!"

"Well I'm sorry I don't want to save the whole world!" The entire room was staring at her now as she jumped to her feet. Anders was still sitting, but he was so tall that this only just put them on eye level. "I was fourteen, they gave me a chance to go home, and I took it. I'm sorry I'm not helping you fight for mage rights," her voice dropped to a whisper," But I just wanted to be normal."

"But you're not," Fenris spoke at last. He was leaning against the wall, eying her carefully. "You said you paid for a treatment, but you're still a mage."

"Your medicine," Garrett said, eyes widening. "The potion you take all the time because of your illness. That's your treatment, isn't it? You always look at it like it's poison, but I thought it was just because it tasted bad or something."

Roslin nodded slowly, slumping back down onto the wooden stool she'd been perched on. "It's a variation on magebane - it drains me of my mana, which is why his _spirit_ ," she jerked her head in Ander's direction, "Was confused."

The healer took on a very different expression at her words. " _Magebane?_ Don't you take that - "

"Three times a week," she said, and after a short pause, also admitted in a low voice, "Ser Karras sometimes likes to practice Silence when I don't speak respectfully. He doesn't trust the treatment. So it's more like four times, some weeks."

Her cousin went white, knowing he'd gotten her original templar dismissed. "Why didn't you ever _tell me_ ," he said, dismayed, reaching forward. "If nothing else, you're an Amell, he can't just - "

"No, he could," Anders interrupted reluctantly. "A lot of templars like doing that - it doesn't leave any physical signs, not like a beating does. She can't complain without admitting she's a mage, and even then she can't prove he did anything." He shook his head. "Magebane every other day...no wonder you're always so sick."

"But...why would you do that?" Merrill said softly, sadly. She hadn't spoken on the matter at all so far, though she'd taken the seat next to Roslin. "Your magic is useful, it's part of you. Why would you want to get rid of it? "

"My specialty is Force magic," Roslin said, staring down at her hands. "It's not like Ander's. It's for destroying things, and I don't want to fight. I wanted to go home. Grand-Uncle sent me a letter when I was in the Circle, and he wanted me back." She looked back up, staring at Anders. "He wanted me _back_ ," she repeatedly quietly. "I had to say yes, don't you see?"

Anders thought back to being fourteen, cold metal gauntlets gripped tight around his skinny arms . His mother had begged them, cried for him as the templars dragged him away.

His father had watched from the window, shutting the curtains before Anders had even left the premises, but his mother had loved him till the end, stuffed the pillow she made for him in his hand. If he could have gone back to _her?_

...

\---

There.

Roslin carefully corked the vial and replaced it in the cupboard where it was always stored.

She'd replaced the contents of her medicine vial with syrup, storing the actual potion in a chest beneath her bed until she decided what to do with it. She'd been granted a temporary reprieve from her appointments while she 'recovered from the trauma' of her kidnapping, and so nobody would notice for awhile that she'd stopped taking her treatment.

Her mana was trickling back at a snail's pace, since the potion had built up in her system over the years. Roslin wasn't sure she'd ever be as powerful as she would have been otherwise - but it was _something_ , more than she'd had in years. The first morning without it was horrid, but within a few days she felt better than she could ever remember. She was always careful not to let anything unusual happen, but almost everyone noticed the new color in her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes.

"I'm glad you're finally feeling well," Valera told her. "You always used to look...empty. Sad."

"I don't now," Roslin said, staring down at her hands. They didn't tremble anymore.

Beneath the faint fear of being caught was a little swell of strength. She didn't want to be caught helpless again - she'd be ready next time.

This was a part of her.

\---

She went to Ander's clinic without Garrett, the hood of her cloak pulled well over her face as she hurried through the steps of Darktown. She felt sick as she glanced through her surroundings, knowing the price of her shoes alone could feed a family down here for a week.

She rapped smartly on the rotting wood doorframe, catching Ander's attention.

"What do you -" The healer paused midsentence, studying her carefully. "You...haven't taken your medicine today." His magic was a bright thrum to her mind, and she wondered what hers felt like to him.

"I haven't taken it all week."

"Changed your mind, have you?"

She looked past him at the patients still lying in the dirty room. It was horrible that anyone in the city had to live in such conditions, and she knew it would be even worse in Darktown if Anders wasn't here.

Roslin squared her shoulders and looked up at him. "I won't fight for the Underground and I'm not a healer," she said, "But I had good marks in Herbalism, back in the Circle. Is there anything I could do to help?"

"...Come in."

\---

**CHAPTER TEN.**

When word came that Saemus had gone and _joined_ the Qunari, Roslin left the estate midday to go find him. She'd been staying at home and only sneaking out to the clinic when nobody was around, hoping to give the impression that she was still too traumatized by her encounter with a maleficar to face the mages in the Gallows.

She wasn't expecting to find Saemus just outside the Keep, though.

"Roslin?" he called, coming closer. "Nobody's seen you in almost two weeks. Are you..."

"I was looking for you," she said, cutting off his questioning. The less she had to talk about what Quentin had done, the better. "Saemus, Valera told me that you...converted. Tell me this is just another stupid bit of Hightown gossip."

Saemus looked away from her and shook his head. "It's not, but I haven't quite officialized it yet. It was going to happen today, but my father sent a letter to the Arishok begging me to meet him in the Chantry. I thought I should at least do that. He'll hate me after this."

" _I_ won't," Roslin blurted out. "Saemus, I know I was horrid in the marketplace - "

"You were nicer than a lot of people - we're fine, really. Walk with me?" He offered his hand to her, and after a pause she took it and fell into step with him.

"Missed you," she whispered. "I'm sorry we haven't talked more lately."

"Missed you too," Saemus replied, nudging her shoulder gently. "And that's hardly your fault. We can talk after I see my father, before I go back to the compound."

Roslin thought about everything that had happened recently and nodded. "Yes, we should. I...have a lot I want to tell you about."

\---

"Father? Father, where are you?"

"Your daddy's not here, kid," a rough, low voice came from behind the stairs. A group of mercenaries emerged from the shadows of the Chantry, weapons out.

"Oh f- Roslin! Roslin, _run_ ," Saemus hissed, backing up twice as fast as he had entered. "It's -"

A pale blonde in the robes of a Revered Mother appeared on the dais, the lines of her face harsh in the golden lighting. "Saemus Dumar," she called out, smiling widely. "Today you will be punished. You should have known better than to befriend those monsters," she tsked.

"Mother Petrice?"

The woman looked around sharply. "Who is that?"

Roslin stepped forward, ignoring Saemus's hushed, “ _Roslin, what are you doing?”_

“Mother Petrice, what is going on?” she asked, looking up at the older woman.

“I - Lady Roslin, this is a matter of the Chantry,” Petrice said, scrambling for words. “I’m sure that in your absence you haven’t heard, but Serah Dumar has converted and joined the Qunari. We’re simply...helping him return to us.”

“That’s certainly not what it sounded like when we entered,” Roslin replied, clenching her fists. “No, my cousin has told me about you. I know just how much you hate the Qunari. You wanted to kill Saemus and blame it on them, didn’t you? Make it look like he was trying to return to the Chantry, and that they killed him for it.”

Petrice blanched, and then waved her arms at the mercenaries. “A lord’s son was good, but if we can blame them for the Viscount’s grandniece as well it will only help us. Kill them both!”

“Roslin - !”

She looked back at him quickly. “Trust me,” she told him. “And in advance, I’m sorry. You should have known.”

“What - ?”

She shoved Saemus away, and then reached deep for the well of magic inside her. It was shallower than she’d like, but it would be enough.

Roslin’s eyes began to glow, and Mother Petrice looked on in horror as the young woman stretched out one lit hand and dropped it abruptly. Immediately, all the mercenaries were dragged towards the center of the room no matter how they fought it.

“You can surrender, or I can make this hurt,” she said, just loud enough to be heard. Her voice echoed in the hall.

“ _Mage!”_ One of the warriors shouted, slowly struggling to his feet. He was considerably slower, but still made a valiant effort to charge her, sword in hand. She ducked beneath his blade, and then knocked him back with a Telekinetic Burst, wincing at how much it cost her. Considering she was terribly out of practice, she wouldn’t be able to last for a real fight.

“Surrender or _else_ ,” she said this time, gathering more mana. Sweat gathered at the back of her neck, but she dug her nails into her palm and breathed carefully, remembering how her instructor had taught her. Force magic was all about control.

No answer came, and her first spell wouldn’t hold much longer.

“Fine then,” she gritted her teeth, and then summoned a Maker’s Hammer to crush them to the ground.

She wasn’t careful enough.

A scream rang through the Chantry, soon followed by the sick crunching of bone. Roslin dropped her arms in shock, breathless and panting.

Petrice lay on the ground, neck snapped cleanly. The spell had caught her too, and from her spot on the edge of the railing she’d been launched into the air and pulled down. The mercenaries were only unconscious, having been more protected from the force of the spell by their armour.

“Oh no,” Roslin mumbled, clasping her hands over her mouth. “Oh no, no, _no_ -”

“Cuz?” came a voice from behind. “What are _you_ doing here - holy Maker, is Petrice dead?”

“Oh dear-”

“You’re Saemus, right? What happened here?”

Garrett, flanked by Anders and Merrill, stared at the scene they had just walked into. Saemus Dumar stood near the wall, pale and shaken. Roslin was standing further into the hall, still as a statue.

“I don’t know,” Saemus told Anders, eyes wide. “I really don’t.”

\---

“I meant to tell you!”

“ _When?_ We’ve been friends almost all our lives, I think you’ve had plenty of chances before now to let me know, _by the way Saemus, I can do magic!_ ”

“I _can’t_ usually,” Roslin sputtered, grabbing at his arm. “That’s what my medicine’s really for, it’s a suppressant, that’s why I’m always going to the Gallows and why I’m always sick, Saemus _please_ don’t hate me -”

He paused in the middle of his pacing to stare at her askance. “Hate you? I don’t hate you, I’m mad because you didn’t _tell me_! I thought,” he softened his voice, looking plaintive, “I thought friends told each other these things.”

“ _Nobody_ knows,” Roslin pointed out. “Or they didn’t, until a few weeks ago. Garrett and his friends know now, because I accidentally used it when I...when I was kidnapped. I stopped taking the medicine after that. I didn’t want to be that helpless ever again.”

Saemus scoffed. “Helpless? I’d say you’re the furthest thing from helpless right now, Roslin.”

She wilted and twisted her ring in distress. “I didn’t mean to kill her. I really didn’t, Saemus. I don’t want to use my magic to hurt people.”

His footsteps stopped for another long moment, and then he sat down next to her and covered her hands with one of his. “I know, Roslin. I know.”

She dropped her head on his shoulder, and he in turn rested his own head on top of hers. “Are you still going to join the Qunari?” Roslin murmured.

“...I won’t, not right now. But you have to tell me everything. From the beginning.”

\---

Isabela left the city soon after, and Garrett was strangely monosyllabic in the following days, a piece of folded paper always on his person. Roslin...didn't know how to ask, but Merrill told her quietly of the pirate's betrayal, and Roslin wondered if her cousin had loved the Rivaini pirate.

Through the gap of his open door, she spotted him prodding at a model ship in a bottle one day, and couldn’t help but think he had.

\---

Eventually, Saemus and Roslin were _both_ glad he had rethought that decision, because the Qunari attacked the city and Saemus wasn't sure he could have listened if the Arishok had ordered him to join.

\---

**CHAPTER ELEVEN.**

When Garrett reached the Keep, he found his grandfather.

Aristide had been stabbed and then forced to kneel amongst the crowd of nobles, as the Arishok stood on the steps and told them all how they would be re-educated. Roslin was there too, unsure of what to do - she knew her magic hadn't recovered enough to be of any real use against the Arishok, who was much, much stronger than the mercenaries she had defeated in the Chantry.

When Isabela returned with the tome, Garrett’s face lit up like nothing Roslin had ever seen - and when the Arishok tried to claim her for being the thief, his face also darkened faster than she'd thought possible.

Fenris suggested a duel, and before she knew what was happening her cousin and the qunari were fighting.

When Garrett was speared straight through on the Arishok's greatsword, Roslin could no longer sit and watch.

“ _No!”_ she shouted, jumping to her feet, suddenly aglow. She ignored the gasps of the nobles in the room and brought her hands towards herself in an abrupt motion, pulling the Arishok away from Garrett and towards herself.

“ _Bas saarebas_!” he roared with anger, breaking free of her spell easily. Frantically, she reached for her mana and smashed him from overhead with a great invisible force, creating a crater in the ground. Still, he staggered to his feet, only shaking his head dizzily.

“Would have done it myself,” Anders said, suddenly beside her. He patted her on the shoulder and then followed Fenris and Isabela into the fray. The other qunari joined as well, protesting against the interference.

When Garrett finally got close enough to take a last shot at the Arishok, Roslin intensified the gravity beneath him to hold him in place while her cousin’s daggers went straight for the qunari’s heart.

“We make - a good team, cuz,” Garrett gasped out, before collapsing into Isabela’s arms. He was bleeding profusely, and Fenris ended up grabbing his legs to help carry him down to Anders’ clinic. While they made for Darktown, Roslin was left behind, still shell-shocked, to deal with the rest.

None of the nobles would say anything to her face as they escaped the Keep.

\---

Her hands were still glowing a very faint blue as she approached her grand-uncle. Aristide scrabbled on the floor, wrinkled bony hands pulling himself away from her. "Don't," he demanded, looking frantic. "Turn that _off,_ Roslin!"

She smiled weakly, looking sad but unsurprised. "You kissed me on the forehead last night," she reminded him. "You told me you were glad that I was your niece. I know I'm not really what you want, but it was nice to hear." She got down on her knees next to him, where the blood was pooling out onto the carpet. His blood. On the ground.

He hated magic so much that he'd rather bleed out than let her touch him with it.

It wasn't just about the hole in his stomach, it was the hole that had been torn straight through his neat little reality, where his grandniece was just a poor little thing suffering from a chronic illness. He'd spent years watching her navigate Hightown parties in silk dresses, burning candles through late night paperwork sessions, turning to him from across the room and smiling like a child. He'd forced himself to ignore what the illness hid, and in turn forgotten to be afraid.

(Her eyes had glowed as she dragged the Arishok closer with her mind, and then she raised her arms to summon a force from the sky that pummeled the qunari leader into the ground. There was still a crater in the floor. She hadn’t even lost her breath.)

"I love you," she whispered. "I love you Grand-Uncle, so I'm going to heal you even if you hate me for it. I'd be a terrible niece, a terrible Court Mage, if I let you die on my watch." She took a quick breath, and then spoke fast even as she gathered what remained of her energy, the light swirling around her hands and illuminating both their faces.

"I'm sorry, but I can't pretend I'm just sick anymore. I'm a mage, _and I can't turn that off."_

She didn’t have the knack for it like Anders; there were no spirits to help her and no years of practice to rely on.

She didn't need the spirits.

The spell burned so fiercely through her body that it felt like lightning running down her arms into Aristide's chest, and the effort of keeping it going made her bite straight through her lip. Someone screamed, and she wasn't sure whether it was him or her.  
  
\---

**CHAPTER TWELVE.**

Roslin woke up, and someone was in her bed.

The someone giggle-snorted in their sleep, and then rolled over. Merrill. That was Merrill, Roslin was quite sure nobody else did that, and why was Merrill in her bed?

This wasn't even her own bed. It smelled like ale and smoke and ink, currently mixed with the woodsy floral scent that always followed the elf next to her.

Where _was_ she?

"I changed my mind on you," Varric's voice came, sounding amused. "You're not the princess, you're the dragon gaurding the tower." She was in the Hanged Man then, in Varric's room. (He owned the whole thing, so she supposed they were really all his rooms.)

"But that doesn't sound as nice," she protested, slurring the words. Her tongue felt numb, her throat dry. "Where's Garrett?"

"He's out," the dwarf told her. "There's a lot of repair work to be done, and the nobles need someone to scream about their troubles to. You did a good job, kid. Aristide's going to be fine."

"Yay," Roslin managed weakly, coughing. "Why am I here then? He hated me enough to kick me out?"

"Woah, slow down there. Nobody's hating anybody. You beat him in the waking up game, he doesn't know where you are. The Keep's in the worst shape after everything, you couldn't stay there, and Chuckles wanted you safe." She heard more than saw the shrug, the thick leather coat rustling. "Daisy wanted to stay with you, but she fell asleep."

"That's okay. 'm tired too. Is everyone alright?" She flopped back down, nestling into the pillows. He may live in a dirty old pub, but Varric had nice pillows.

"No worse than usual - Blondie's clinic is full, but he's always overworked. Everyone's doing their jobs."

"What about 'sabela?"

"...Rivaini's still in town," Varric said after a small pause. "She came back, Roslin. She messed up, but she tried to fix it."

"I know. Still goin' to - to hit her. And I'll Maker's Fist her ship if she ever does it again." She'd never forget Garrett's face when he realized that Isabela had tricked him, or the grim determination on his face when he told the Arishok that he couldn't have her.

Varric's voice was back to amused. "You do that, Princess. Maybe get some more sleep first. You strained the magical-equivalent of a muscle, casting big spells after not using it all. Blondie said you'd be tired for awhile."

"I can tell," she groaned. Merrill was warm at her back, and the pillows were incredibly soft. "Remind me though. Punching. Later."

\---

The next time, she floated into consciousness as a familiar voice filled her ears.

"I heard Roslin was here. Can I see her?"

"She's asleep, kid. Been asleep, tired herself out."

"Not anymore, Varric!" she called out, rubbing the drool from her mouth. It was entirely undignified, but Saemus had probably earned the right to see her at less than best.

To his credit, he didn't make any comment besides a little smile when he entered the room. "Hi Roslin."

"Hi Saemus." The silence stretched between them, and she felt her hands curl in the tension.

"I came to tell you some news," he said quietly, the smile gone from his face. "Meredith died in the invasion.”

“ _What?”_ Against her better judgement, Roslin had gotten…used to the other woman. They didn’t particularly like each other, but Meredith was _strong._ She made rules and followed them, did what she thought best even when older Templars like Alrik insinuated she wasn’t fit for her position. “But – Garrett said she helped him get inside, she was _fine_ then – “

“Reinforcements came behind him,” Saemus said quietly. “She and the First Enchanter were the only ones left to hold the gate so more of them couldn’t enter the Keep. Orsino says she took a hit meant for him.”

Roslin stifles a gasp, swallows hard against the ache in her throat. For Meredith, who had fought so often with Orsino, to die protecting him….

_‘We do not just protect the world from mages, Ser Alrik! We must also guard our charges from the people who would hurt them….’_

“There’s…more,” he added reluctantly. “One of her lieutenants-” _Ser Karras,_ her mind supplied. It wouldn’t be surprising. She’d been avoiding him for weeks. “-found your file in her office. They said you broke the terms of your treatment and position when you used magic at the Keep, and wanted to take you back to the Circle."

White-cold shock ran down her spine. After all this, they wanted to take her _back?_

Saemus continued before she could worry herself into a proper panic. "The Viscount woke up yesterday. When he heard, he declared you and your cousin Champions of Kirkwall." A little pause, just to watch the little drop in her jaw, and then he added, "Every one of the noble families backed him on it."

Champion of Kirkwall.

_Champion of Kirkwall._

She'd spent hundreds of hours poring over the history texts in the Keep's library, her tutor going over the names of Champions. There were barely a dozen, across nine cities and hundreds of years. The last had been Cade Arvale in Tantervale, over 50 years ago.

_He'd stopped the Nevarran expansion._

To have their names in such a short list, to be placed anywhere near the Champion of Starkhaven who had fought with Garahel in the Fourth Blight - it was an honor beyond her wildest dreams. Garrett would never understand, _he_ hadn't grown up reading about the greatest figures of the Free Marches.

For Aristide to give them this - _for all the nobles to agree with him -_

She was free. She could walk around and use her Force magic to help the miners, if she so wanted. She could cast ice for the Lowtown butcher's stall. She could make a flame spark that wouldn't burn and give it to the children to play with.

She could do all that and the Templars wouldn't be able to touch her. She could never swallow another drop of the treatment and still not have to go back to the Circle. She was _free._

Saemus seemed to understand, pulling her shaking frame closer into a loose hug. She laughed into his shoulder until the tears came and her cheeks burned and her stomach ached, although that last one might just have been because she hadn't eaten in days.

"I can't believe all of them - your father _hates_ me," she protested in between gasps for air.

"He doesn't, not really. And a Champion doesn’t even have to be liked, just feared – you and Hawke, you saved us all. They ought to respect you."

_wrinkled bony hands scrabbling on the floor, fear swollen up in rheumy old eyes_

"You don't do either," she said, trying to hide her wince. It was a clumsy attempt that her best friend caught easily enough.

"It's hard to be afraid of someone you've watched trip on air," he pointed out, trying to grin. "And someone who's saved your life not once but twice, and still made you cookies when you got dumped."

"...They weren't very good cookies though," Roslin said.

"They were pretty bad," Saemus admitted, "I gave them to the city guards and one of them got food poisoning."

They stared at each other, Roslin trying to look offended but failing, and then they burst into laughter all over again.

\---

"So you're...?"

Cullen looked down at Roslin Amell, one of the two newly named Champions of Kirkwall, and wondered why she felt so strangely familiar.

She was very small. He still felt the urge to salute.

"Cullen. The new Knight Commander, recently transferred from Ferelden. It's nice to meet you, Champion. Or is it Serah? I'm not very familiar with the titles in the Free Marches yet."

She found herself smiling. He was kind of....adorable, for a Templar – and so very different from Meredith, but she had hope that he might turn out just as well.

"You can use whichever you'd like. I'm Roslin Amell, Knight Commander. Welcome to Kirkwall."

  
\---  
  
 **EPILOGUE.**

“I _can’t believe_ you’d do this to me, Saemus!”

The aqua eyed boy grinned sheepishly, holding up his hands in mock-surrender. “When was I supposed to tell you? Things have been busy.”

“But this is important!” cried Roslin, flailing her arms. “3 years Saemus, you’ve been mooning over him since he left 3 years ago and _you didn’t let your best friend know he was back in town?”_

“He’s a _Grey Warden_ now Roslin, and he said he only has a few days until he needs to move on to Ansburg. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“Nathaniel would be an idiot- _”_

“You sound mad cuz,” Garrett came over to them, a slight swagger in his step. “Does someone need to be blown up?”

“ _Please_ don’t threaten Nate,” Saemus groaned. “No explosions, from _either_ of you!” Hawke had an unnerving penchant for grenades and for all that Roslin’s magic tended towards the invisible, that didn’t mean it couldn’t be just as damaging as a flashy firestorm.

“No explosions, just talking,” promised Roslin, looking contrite. “And Garrett, will you _ever_ stop calling me that?”

“Nope,” he replied, popping the last syllable with a cheeky grin. “It’s fun. Grandpa Viscount calls, by the way. He’s in his lair.”

“He...wants to see me?”

“Yeah,” shrugged Garrett. “I guess he finally decided to get his head out of his ass. He should have talked to you ages ago.” It’d been a month since she had talked to Aristide out of the public eye. It had seemed like he wanted to go on pretending that nothing was wrong, that nothing had happened.

“I guess I’ll go see what he…wants,” she said, trailing off nervously. Saemus patted her on the shoulder.

“It’ll be okay Roslin. Just go see what he has to say.”

“We could blow up his office if he’s still sucking. A little explosion. A baby one.”

“ _No explosions_ ,” Saemus insisted, and Roslin headed towards the staircase as the sound of Garrett’s chuckling faded away. Her stomach twisted as she climbed the steps, curdling with anxiety and the slight urge to vomit. She was glad she’d taken to wearing more practical shoes. She’d have lost her balance and fallen already if she still had them.

“You can’t turn it off Roslin,” she whispered to herself. “He can’t make you change who you are.”

She knocked on the door sharply, waiting for a response.

Viscount Aristide himself opened the door. "Roslin. Come in." She entered the room at a normal pace, keeping her chin lifted and her gaze steady. She would not be hesitant, she would not hide. Not anymore.

"Roslin," he repeated her name quietly, gazing down at her. His eyes were red, as if he hadn't been sleeping well.

"Garrett said you wished to speak with me, sir." It was the rudest she could manage while still being technically proper. The lack of 'Grand-Uncle' was pointed. He grimaced.

"Yes, I do. Roslin..." he paused for a deep breath, his expression settling in an odd mixture of calm and regret. "I am sorry."

...What?

That...wasn't expected. Aristide did not make a habit of apologizing, and he did it only when he truly felt he had been in the wrong. (It was a part of his character that she'd always admired, even if it often made diplomacy with their neighbors a challenge.)

"Why?" she asked softly, returning his gaze.

"I was wrong," he said slowly. He settled down onto his plush chair, and she swore she could hear the creaking of bones. Sometimes it was easy to forget how very old her Grand-Uncle was. She should watch out for him a bit more, Roslin thought absent-mindedly, and then winced as she thought of where that had gotten her last time.

"Magic...I won't lie. Your magic is frightening, child. They never told me what you studied in the Circle, and it never occurred to me to ask if you were actually any good at it."

"My specialty is Force magic. It's a school of magic that's been worked on for years here, we have the best of its practictioners," Roslin told him. "And yes. I was - I am - good at it."

He nodded, looking very tired. "I know. I saw. I...reacted poorly, afterwards. I should have known you didn't mean me any harm, but I'd never even imagined you would be so...and to see you coming towards me afterward, knowing that I'd paid to have that power supressed for years, I..." He trailed off, looking pained. "You healed me, though. Could you - I know Garrett has an apostate friend, the Darktown healer. Could you do that? Here?"

Roslin tasted ashes on her tongue. Of course. He'd accept her magic if she would stick to healing. That was a nice, useful little avenue for it. Non-threatening. Fitting for a woman, for an Amell.

"I'm not a Spirit Healer. I'm not a proper healer at all - they test you, when you enter the Circle, and I had the worst scores for Creation. People like Anders - it's a calling, healing is what their magic automatically reaches for. Mine isn't like that." _I only tried to heal you because there wasn't any other option. If I tried and failed, you'd be no worse off._

He looked disappointed, and she almost turned to leave the room altogether. "Wait," he asked, and she conceded after a tense moment. "I - Roslin, what do _you_ want to do?"

...Funny.

He'd never asked her that before.

"I want to be off the treatment," she said instantly. "I haven't been taking it for awhile, but I want to make sure you know. I'm not taking it anymore, not ever again. It - everytime I took it, it was like...muffling everything. Being cold all the time, waking up with headaches and shivering and - It's _horrible."_

"You - you never told me that," Aristide said, looking ashen. "You never complained -"

She laughed in his face, dark eyes dancing in the candlelight of his office. "Five years, _Grand-Uncle_. I was a fifteen minute boat ride from the docks for _five years_ , and I didn't hear a word from you until the Templars came knocking with the treatment. You made it clear what was more important to you. _You wanted me to be normal!”_ She paused, quieting. “ _I_ wanted to be normal. So that you’d let me come home. So that...you’d still love me.”

"I just wanted you to be free from the Circle - "

"You wanted me to be free from _magic._ But that's a part of me too. A part that I can't let you ignore anymore. It's not a sickness."

"It's not that simple - "

"But it is," Roslin said softly, looking him in the eye. "In this case, it really is. You're my grand-uncle, and that's important to me. It is. But at the same time, I'm an Enchanter, and sometimes I'm going to use magic, and that's not something I can stop being even for you."

They stared at each other for a long while - the same eyes in two very different faces.

Aristide broke the quiet with a loud sigh, stepping back and turning away. "You are one of Kirkwall's Champions now. You don't need _my_ permission to do what you want."

"That doesn't mean I can't want it."

He glanced back, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he quirked his lips faintly. "I can't promise you anything. It's still very strange. But...I trust you. I know you'll try and do the right thing. You're an Amell."

She brushed her fingers over the paper-thin skin of his hand and whispered, "Thank you," before leaving the office.

\---

"Hey cuz!" Garrett called from across the hall. Isabela was at his side, gorgeous and bronzed as ever. Roslin still hadn't forgiven her, but she certainly wasn't going to be making decisions for her cousin. It was _his_ capacity for forgiveness that mattered here.

"Stop calling me that!" she shouted back, making her way over to them.

"We're heading out to the Hanged Man, I can't deal with any more schmoozing. D’you want to come with us? We can grab Dumar's boyfriend if that'll help."

"You'll get Nathaniel?" Roslin laughed, pulling out the pins that had been pinching into her scalp for the last hour. "That sounds like a better night than here. We'll come."

Tracking Saemus down through the crowds took a minute, but soon enough they were headed out and down the steps of the Keep, into the fresh cold air that stung pleasantly as she inhaled. In the back of her mind, her power hummed, overlayed with the sounds of her friends' raucous laughter and shouting.

She glanced down and summoned a handful of sparks, leaving a trail of stars in their wake across the city. Roslin didn't need to wish on them anymore. She had finally gotten all she wanted.

**_fin._ **


End file.
